


non, je ne regrette rien

by hapsburgs



Category: Heist Society Series - Ally Carter
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapsburgs/pseuds/hapsburgs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby Bishop had always loved Paris, and now he was in love with the girl who exemplified it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	non, je ne regrette rien

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teesandjays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teesandjays/gifts).



> this is for tonya (teesandjays) because she is fabulous and I love her like; honestly, tonya, you mean so much to me and you've always listened to me no matter what and you've always been there for me and I hope you know that I'll always be there for you. BTW the title is an Edith Piaf song; it means 'No, I regret nothing'.

Bobby Bishop hates Amelia Bennett.  
    He tears his eyes from the table in front of him, looking back up at her.  
    _Why does she have to be so goddamn distracting?_  
    She's talking on and on about something smart and probably extremely interesting, and he wishes he could pay attention but he just can't. It's the shoes, to start with. High stilettos that show off her long, lean legs. The skirt is dark and tight all the way to two-inches above the knee, and every time she turns around his eyes go to her ass and he nearly chokes. Her dark top is tucked in and displays her thin arms and trim shoulders and it just suggests a hint of cleavage that is obsessive. Her skin is perfect and pale and flawless and he wants to run his hands through her hair, all shiny and thick and long. Everything she walks past, he gets a whiff of her pomegranate perfume; the forbidden fruit, and he has to urge himself to stay calm.  
    So no, he doesn't hate Amelia Bennett. He actually loves her.  
    He just hates what she does to him.  
    "Have you been listening, Mr. Bishop?" She snaps, placing a hand on her trim waist.  
    "Of course." He smirks despite the internal war with himself, and to her surprise, stands up.  
    "What about your-" She doesn't finish, as he hands the handcuffs that were previously binding him to the chair to her with a grin. She takes them with a sigh. She looks troubled, so therefore generally adorable.  
    "You are so interesting, Ms. Bennett." He shakes his head, stepping closer to her. His heart beats almost in a rhythm: _I want you I want you I want you I want you_. And he does - so badly it hurts. She blinks.  
    "Detective Bennett, Mr. Bishop." She reminds him hardly, taking a nervous step back until her back hits the wall.  
    "I'm sorry, _Detective Bennett_." He whispers, leaning closer. "And please, call me Bobby."  
    He wants to kiss her, my god he wants to kiss her.  
    (He doesn't just want to kiss her, he knows. He wants to fuck her until she screams, preferably right now. Against the wall)  
    "I will not be seduced by a thief." She swallows hard.  
    "I think you already have been, _Amelia_." The name rolls off his tongue like honey, and he's standing so close to her that her breath stirs his face, and he can see something spark in her eyes.  
    Bobby Bishop is an intelligent man. He knows the case against him is weak, and he knows he'll be released in a matter of hours, free once again.  
    Bobby Bishop has also always been a massive risk taker.  
    He crushes his lips against hers, as hard as he can, immediately pushing his tongue into her mouth and part of him thinks this is a bit forward of him, but screw it because after a fraction of a minute her lips soften against his.  
    She tastes like cherries and cinnamon and pomegranate, and god, he can't even think clearly anymore. It's only physical instinct when a hand clenches in her hair, another rests on her hip as he slams her as hard as he can against the wall. His mouth muffles a low groan that unwillingly escapes her lips.  
    "Stop." She whimpers as he mouth moves to her swanlike neck.  
    "Do you want me to?" He murmurs. She doesn't respond, so his eyes meet hers. They're pleading and begging for something he can't quite describe, so he steps away from her, heart beating in his ears.  
    She looks shaken and for a minute she looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn't.  
    "I have to go." She says coldly, but it is not nearly as unwavering as he knows she wishes it was.  
    "Okay." He shrugs with a smile. She studies him for a few seconds before she exits.  
    He finally lets himself breathe.  
  
   
  


* * *

 "Bonjour, Amelia." He slides into the empty seat across from her in the small cafe off of the Seine the next morning. As predicted, he got out later that night.  
    "You kissed me yesterday." She states, taking a sip of her coffee, not particularly surprised to find him here.  
    "Yes. And you kissed me back."  
    "Did I?"  
    "Yes, you did." He grins, and she nods.  
    "You're infuriating, you know that?" She shakes her head, raising an eyebrow as she sips her coffee. "You saunter around, all arrogance and conceit, thinking you are so high and mighty because you think you're the epitome of the debonair thief, seducing and stealing with your slightly curly hair that all the girls want to run their hands through, your gorgeous eyes and that smile that drives everyone mad. But despite being fairly attractive and charming, we all know you did it."  
    "...Did you just admit that you think I'm cute?" He's grinning from ear to ear and his stomach flips at her reaction.  
    "'Fairly attractive'." She reminds him. He raises an eyebrow. "Well, maybe 'incredibly attractive', to be completely honest."  
    "That's better." He smirks, and her lips curl into a slight smile.  
    He loses his train of thought.  
    He's never seen her smile before.  
      
   
  


* * *

Coffee becomes a regular morning as well as afternoon thing; he meets her before work and during her lunch break, at the same cafe at the same table in the corner overlooking the passing crowd and the banks of the Seine. Sometimes they talk, about books or music or sometimes art. Sometimes they flirt.  
    But mostly, it's just silence; both of them reading something (usually Le Monde or operation reports for her and Dickens or Twain for him), slipping into an easy comfortableness. They both sip their coffees; black, bitter and strong and harsh.  
    It stays like this for awhile, but one day after two coffees he ends up catching her leaving work (truly an accident, but perhaps it's fate), and so there's dinner and wine and he really means it just to be a few hours, but it turns into an entire night. He stares at her through the smoky haze, all soft curves and eloquence and aplomb with a good taste in wine and an even better taste in books.  
    They're only kicked out when it's past midnight, when the owner, who Bobby knows personally, asks them to leave. After all, they had been there an hour past closing anyway. And they walk the glistening streets of Paris under the stars, the lights on the Seine reflecting in her eyes.  
    So they wander and wander and wander and somehow they end up at his building and all of a sudden her lips are on his again. It's not like the first; harsh and hard. It's deep and passionate and he doesn't want to break the kiss to breathe.  
    And somehow they fumble their way into his dark apartment, practically tripping on the clothes they are tearing off each other. His hands are seeking out any bare skin he can find, and her nails are digging into his back and his pulse is racing and the rest is the purest sort of perfection.  
      
  

* * *

  
 She's not there when he wakes up the next morning.  
    Part of him, the irrational part, thought she would be.  
  


* * *

  
    Breakfast coffee that day is so silent it scares him. She doesn't even look up from her newspaper the entire time. She looks just as gorgeous as usual, but he can see faint purple and red marks on her neck that she's tried to cover up. His lips almost tug in a smile. He wants to say something but he doesn't know what.  
    Lunchtime coffee is even worse. It puts him into a panic, and then she finally meets his eyes when she has to leave.  
    "We shouldn't have slept together." She says, her voice covered in ice and not at all like the tone he thought he knew.  
    "Why?" He whispers.  
    "I mean," She shifts uncomfortably before leaning in closer to him a fraction. "You're a very nice man, Bobby. You're charming, and sweet and not at all what I thought you'd be, but this can't happen anymore."  
    "Why?" He repeats, letting his voice rise. She looks around nervously before departing in a rush. He follows her a block down the street before catching her arm. "Why?" He murmurs in her ear as he turns her to face him.  
    "Because you're a thief and I'm a cop, working in art crimes, nevertheless. Do you know how many rules I'm breaking just by having coffee with you?" She hisses, and he takes a step back. "I am _sorry_ , Bobby. You know that I can't. Interpol would go mad. And I suspect your family wouldn't approve, either."  
    "Then tell me this," His grip loosens on her arm but she stays close to him anyway. "Do you enjoy your time with me?"  
    "Yes, very much." She admits slowly.  
    "So if you like being with me, and I like being with you, then why can't we be together?" He lets himself smile slightly.  
    _Oh god, please smile back._  
    She doesn't.  
    "I'm sorry." She tears her arm away, taking two steps back before turning and practically running back to Interpol, safety, and home.  
      
  

* * *

  
 He sends a dozen roses to her everyday for a week. Not bright red, but a nice burgundy. He waits at their usual coffee table in the morning and at lunch, but she doesn't return. He writes letters with the roses, about the coffee table and books he's reading and things that remind him of her.  
    He is hesitant to use the word 'love', because no matter how much of a romantic he is, he doesn't necessarily believe you can grow to love someone in a few weeks. But he can not stop thinking about her; her smile and her lips and her hair and her eyes but not just her body with all those svelte curves tucked into those tight-yet-professional clothing; he appreciates her intelligence and determination and persevere and ambition and sangfroid and yet she is compassionate and immensely caring.  
    When he first laid eyes on Amelia Bennett, he was attracted physically; only wanted to see her break and moan. He never thought he would find her so fascinating in his entire life, because despite all of this she is a mystery, an enigma wrapped in a conundrum; he never knows what to expect.  
    She's at his door in nine days, letters in hand.  
    "You were there every day?" He nods, and she sighs. "Well, that's persistence if I ever saw it." Her fingers lace together, the only sign of her nervousness. "Why are you so persistent, anyway?"  
    "Because you're worth fighting for." He breathes, and she swallows.  
    "I'm awful at relationships, you know. I'm not good with...expressing my feelings. I eat men alive, to be honest; like a black widow or something." She meets his eyes. "And I was so worried about you just fucking me then dumping me, like I've done to so many, but then again men like that don't send bouquets of roses and long letters, so-"  
    He presses his lips to hers. Light and airy and soft.  
    "You're cute when you babble." He says against her mouth.  
    "I still like roses and letters, no matter how cliche, just to remind you, now that we're..."  
    "We're what?" He kisses her again.  
    "I don't even know what 'this' is, but I know that 'this' is something. _Something worth fighting for._ " She repeats his earlier words, looping her arms around his neck.  
    "What about Interpol?" He questions.  
    "What Interpol doesn't know won't hurt them. And besides, you make me happy." She smiles. "And why would I want to stop that?"  
    "Precisely." His face is pressed right against hers, and he can't even describe the elation he feels in his veins. "What did it for you, exactly?"  
    "The last letter - I love a man who can quote Keats, then dissect and criticize Keats, but then admit to loving Keats anyway. How did you know I like Keats anyway?" She nuzzles her face against his.  
    "I'm a thief, sweetheart. I observe." He kisses her again.  
    "We should stop talking." He grins in response.  
    "I wholeheartedly agree."  
  
      
  


* * *

"I hate mornings-after." She murmurs into her pillow just as the sun breaks through the shades. "Usually so awkward. That's why I cutted out the last time - sorry, by the way. Though this isn't a morning-after, because this wasn't a one night stand."  
    "It's fine." He's turned onto his side, looking at her. She's laying on her stomach, hands under her pillow, head turned to look at him.  
    "This is nice, though." She smiles, scooting closer to him and pressing her lips to his briefly.  
    "Very nice." He smirks, placing a kiss on her forehead. "See? No Interpol agents breaking in."  
    "No, but imagine how embarrassing it would be." She laughs. "Me lying in your bed wearing nothing at all."  
    "I forgot about that." Bobby smirks, letting his hand run over the bare skin of her hip.  
    "Really?" She raises an eyebrow. "Oddly enough, I don't think you did."  
    "Not really." He whispers, almost confiding, and she breaks into peals of laughter as he moves to kiss her again.  
  
   
  


* * *

 So their relationship now consists of this: Every morning, they wake up and go out for coffee. She goes to work, he does whatever. They meet for lunch. Back to work and whatever. Dinner, and then it repeats; they spend so much time at each other's places that they already have drawers for each other.  
    Weekends are spent together, too - walking Paris and listening to old music and reading and most importantly, going to museums. It's easy and nice and not particularly serious. They each lead their own life, but they kind of share them; they revolve around each other.  
    One night, that changes.  
    He wakes up when he hears a noise next to him. The clock reads 1:47am.  
    "Amelia?" He rolls over in a fog. She's sitting up, curled into a ball. Her hand is over her mouth, muffling her sobs. "Are you okay?" He sits up quickly, almost afraid to touch her.  
    She shakes her head just a fraction.  
    "Tell me what's wrong." He's actually really afraid - he's never seen her anything besides happy, or content; never crying.  
    "Do you know," She whispers. "that I am the weakest link of my whole department? Everyone else is so much better, and smarter than I am. All of them  have caught so many criminals, and I'm just rushing to catch up and it's so much pressure and I have to do well; this is the only thing I've ever thought I could be good at, but it turns out I'm awful at it, but I have nothing to fall back on and -" He can see her shaking.  
    "Shhhh, sweetheart." He does his best to be brave, and she takes her into his arms and places her on his lap. He can hear her breathing in and out much too fast, hyperventilating. _inoutinoutinoutinout_. "Breathe with me, okay? Breathe in...and out."  
    He wills himself to steady his breathing, and she can hear her trying, but it's too erratic, too unsteady. "In...out." Her breathing starts to slow to his. "It's okay, Amelia. I'm right here. In...out."  
    Tears are still streaming down her cheeks,but her breathing is finally with his. He curls his arms closer around her.  
    "I'm going to tell you something, okay? You are smart, Amelia. You are determined. You are perseverant. You do not give up. And while it may seem frustrating now, you will come out on top.  I mean, you figured out that Visily Romani is just a name, when no one could for decades."  
    "That's true?" She murmurs into his chest.  
    "Yes, it is. See? You're so smart, Amelia. I'll be here for you, okay? Keep breathing with me." In a few minutes, her shaking subsides, and her breathing is steady. A few minutes more, and she's asleep in her arms.  
    He holds her as close as he can when he falls back to sleep, too.  
  
      
  


* * *

They don't talk about the anxiety often; mostly it's just flirting and sex and cuddling. But then there's nights when he wakes up to her crazy breathing, or he'll find her just staring at herself in the mirror, tears streaming down her face and never once in his life did he think her confidence was just a facade for extreme insecurity.  
    So he always, _always_ takes her into his arms, wills her to calm down and does his best to comfort her until she's better.  
    "I feel like such a burden to you." She whispers to him one night.  
    "Darling, you will never be a burden." He holds her closer, almost feeling tears pricking in his eyes at her remark. "Not to me, and not to anyone."  
      
  

* * *

  
 He can't believe he's in love with her.  
    It hit him like a brick; he didn't identify these feelings as love.  
    When he thinks about it hard enough, it is ironic that he fell in love with her in Paris. Paris is light and fun and has a certain whimsy that is indescribable, but it is also a dark kind of sexy, elegant and sensual and promising danger - _just like her_.  
    He loves every single facet of her. He loves her shattered confidence, always doubting herself, because he wants to fix her.  
    He loves her enough to go out and buy an engagement ring. Yes, it's hasty and absolutely crazy, and he hasn't told anyone about her, not even her daughter, but screw all the other thieves and screw Interpol and screw what they think.  
    "I'm going to go do some work at Musee d'Orsay." He presses a deep kiss on her lips. "I'll be back in a few hours."  
    "See you soon." She smirks slightly from her seat on the bed, a book in her lap.  
    The Monet he picks up is gorgeous, one of her favorites, because what better than a stolen Monet for an engagement gift. He can feel the ring burning in his pocket on the walk back, feel his heart thundering in his chest.  
    "Amelia?" He calls into the apartment as he steps in, and immediately he knows something is off; it's too quiet, too dark. "Sweetheart?"  
    "Hands behind your head!" And suddenly there's men everywhere, all dressed in black and with guns and circling and grabbing him.  
    "I don't understand." He looks around wildly as he raises his hands behind his head. "I've done nothing."  
    "I would hardly call stealing a Monet nothing, Mr. Bishop." A man in a suit who looks a bit familiar. "Nice work, Detective Bennett."  
    And to his surprise, Amelia saunters out from the crowd, who part like the Red Sea for her. She looks like a stranger; her face is too haughty, her smirk is unfamiliar and absolutely cruel.  
    "Amelia, what's going on?" He leans towards her.  
    "Oh, I think you know." Her voice is hard as she steps mere inches in front of him. A soft, delicate hand moves to touch his face. "Darling, dashing Bobby." She mimics the tone he thought he knew for months. "There was no way I was going to let you get away."  
    "But," He's shaking his head, trying to understand. "What do you mean?"      
    "She tricked you, Mr. Bishop. Played you like a fiddle. A long con, waited for you to go off and steal something so she could catch you." He recognizes the man as her boss now; and it's like a bucket of icy water has been poured over his head, and honestly he wants to throw up and collapse because never in a million years did he expect this.  
    "But I love you." He whispers, willing with all of his might not to let the tears roll down his face.  
    "Please." She sneers, crossing her arms. "Did you really every think a girl like me would love a guy like you? Pathetic."  
    The ring is on fire in his pocket.  
  
  

* * *

  
 He sees her months later in Lyon.  
    He happens to be there for a quick visit, and she's living there now, working at Interpol headquarters. He didn't plan on really ever seeing her again, but now, seeing her walk down the street, casual and elegant, navigating the cobblestone streets in her high wedges, he wants to speak to her.  
    She had hurt him immensely, but he wants to talk to her. To say what, he doesn't know, but like being pulled by magnet, he's following her down a rustic, fairly deserted street.  
    "Fancy seeing you here, Detective Bennett." He leans easily against the wall, trying to hide the malice in his voice. She pauses, turns slowly, a small smile on her lips.  
    "Bobby," She steps closer to him, long slow purposeful strides that show off those long legs that he still stares at.  
    "Mr. Bishop, please." He reminds her, and she laughs sharply.  
    "Mr. Bishop, then. You're looking none the worse for your wares." A hand ghosts over his arm, and he immediately tenses. "How've you been?"  
    "Fine." He replies shortly. "So you're in Lyon now?"  
    "Yes. Why are you here? Plan on stealing a statue?" She mocks, and he swallows hard.  
    "I loved you, you know." He says quietly, watches the smile on her face slide off. "I was going to propose."  
    "You were?" She whispers, eyes locking hard with his. He nods, grins sadly.  
    "Tell me, Amelia." He starts. "Were all those things you said true? Your favorite books, favorite places."  
    "Yes. I didn't lie about that. I had no need to." She says simply.  
    "And that anxiety," He whispers, inclining his head down towards her. "Was that fake, too?"  
    Her stare is long and hard and for moments it is like all of Lyon, all of the world is frozen. She finally looks away, and when she gazes back at him, there is a new expression in her eyes; still hard, but weary - showing cracks that go so deep, and have been there for so long they have never healed.  
    "No." She says hoarsely, and he nods. All of this makes it all worse, somehow; he did in fact fall in love with the real her, and not some fake, artificial version; She really does love Tolstoy and likes Homeland and Ocean's 11, and she does have anxiety issues and until this moment, he did not realize he was still in love with her.       
    How you can still love someone who has ripped out your heart and turned it to dust in front of him, he doesn't know. Once upon a time, he would have said it was impossible. But now, he knows the feeling is certainly real.  
    "It was no secret you were attracted to me." He thinks she would be smug, but she's monotonous. "The way you were eyeing me. I noticed, and so did my superiors. So I got closer to you. You were charming, and nice, and 'incredibly attractive'." Her lips quirk up in a half smile in reference. "And the sex was a test, really. If you hadn't come after me after I wanted to end it, it would have been done with. But you showed how much you cared." He says nothing, and she sighs, looking around quickly in exasperation. "Despite what you may think, I don't find any joy in hurting people."  
    "Doesn't seem like it." He says coolly, and she swallows hard. "Goodbye, Amelia."  
    "I didn't know you were so hurt." She calls after him, causing him to turn. "I mean, maybe I did but I didn't want you to be. You're strong, unlike me. I thought you would move on."  
    "Do you regret what you've done?" He shoves his hands in his pockets.  
    "I regret hurting you. It hurt me, too." She admits.  
    "Did you ever love me?" He lets himself stride over to her, just a hairsbreadth away.  
    "Yes." She breathes, and he doesn't really know if this is a game or not.  
    "Do you still?" He asks, scanning her eyes which have turned a kind of soft he's never seen in her before. "Because despite how you've ruined me, I still love you."  
    "Yes." She nods. "I have always."  
    He lets his lips brush against hers in relief, because deep in his heart he knows that she's not lying. She still tastes the same, feels the same yet everything is different.  
    "Goodbye." He can't bare to open his eyes, but he can hear her rapid breathing, feel her presence so close to him but he wills himself to be strong as he steps away.  
    He turns to look at her one last time; and she's like a model out of a fashion magazine, standing in the middle of that ancient cobblestone street, elegant buildings rising around her as she stares back at him. He's almost far enough away that he doesn't see the tears streaming down her gorgeous face.  
    Almost.


End file.
